A Series of Situations: The Use of Structure, Sound, & Characters in The Man in Red Shoes The creative works featured in my thesis are poems that are designed to be a part of a larger work entitled The Man in Red Shoes. This larger work is a creative project that began several years ago, and the focus of my thesis project was to continue this sequence by composing new poems to build and expand this poetic collection. Each piece featured in the thesis work, as well as the previous poems in the larger sequence, follows a consistent form that consists of prose poetry and epistolary poetry. My intention of this creative project is to highlight many of the social and cultural issues in an absurd and humorous way. Poetry felt like the appropriate medium to address my content because its concentrated focus on words and phrasing adds weight and value to issues I present. Among these issues, one of the most prevalent issues is the hypocrisy as well as sincerity of religious ethics in daily life. These issues largely come from the inspiration for the work. Each piece was designed to be a thematic interpretation of a religious concept: either the Stations of the Cross, which depict the events of Christ’s Passion, or a mystery of the rosary, which are meditations for prayer that center on the life of Christ. The first five poems are interpretations on the last five stations of The Stations of the Cross (“Jesus is Stripped,” “Jesus is Nailed to the Cross,” “Jesus Dies on the Cross, “Jesus is Taken Down From the Cross,” “Jesus is Buried”). The second five poems are interpretations on the Joyful Mysteries of the Rosary (“The Annunciation,” “The Visitation,” “The Nativity,” “The Presentation,” “The Finding in the Temple”). And the last five poems are interpretations on the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary (“Agony in the Garden,” “Scourging at the Pillar,” “Crowning of Thorns,” “Carrying of the Cross,” “The Crucifixion”). A Series of Situations Bravo 2 A proper introduction of this creative work must begin with the structure of the poems. Each piece is written using the same structure: a block of prose followed by a letter. The prose block consists of two to three scenes. The purpose of these scenes is to host interactions and dialogue between characters. These scenes are often distinct and separate from each other, though they remain thematically linked. The letter that closes each piece similarly is distinct and separate from the events in the prose block, though it, too, is thematically linked. Each piece is designed to follow this structured formula and rarely deviates. Although each work in this project is written in the same form, each work is centered on a different theme inspired by the religious concepts that inspired it. The block of prose expresses this theme and the epistle, though not connected with the actions of the preceding prose, echoes that same theme. For example, the poem “The Calling (Words at the Door)” is the interpretation of the first Joyful Mystery of the Rosary, the Annunciation, in which Mary is told by the angel Gabriel that she is called to become the mother of the Christ. From this Mystery, I chose to focus on the concept of vocations and callings. I then attempted to create scenes that feature the theme of vocations and callings: in the first scene, old man peter denies the religious vocation to become a priest; in the second scene, cable kennedy is distressed by his inability to discern what his vocation is in life; and in the letter portion, karen the undertaker focuses on the dedication and obsession of her brother’s commitment to his vocation. Using the elements of character and dialogue, I attempt to express these inspired themes using irony, hyperbole, and absurdity. For instance, in “Delays & Departures (Climb Down from Your Treehouse),” whose theme is about losing loved one, I use these elements, particularly hyperbole, to express how ramón and julia become lost to their friends and family in their obsessive relationship: A Series of Situations Bravo 3 the languid lovers, ramón and julia, lie lustfuly indifferent to their insulated isolation, for the other alone does each live—they spend their days ruminating and romanticizing their palpable pacts to prove their ardent admiration, confessing constantly, “never before & never again does a love like ours burn bright, we can’t even go outside without looks of injurious envy, no one else understands, no one else matters, just us”—forgotten friends and finite family are forced from the forefront as they exist involved and dissolved in we-centric wallpaper wisdom. (“Delays & Departures (Climb Down from Your Treehouse)”) The grammatical and stylistic conventions I chose to use in constructing this adopted framework reflect that hyperbole and absurdity as well. Therefore, the prose portion of each poem is constructed and punctuated to be read without a proper stop until the start of the epistle. This rhetorical effect is designed to stimulate a quick, saturated barrage of imagery and action. The first section of each poem is written in prose poetry. Prose poetry does not necessarily have a set structure, but rather refers to poems that use elements of both prose and poetry. However, one important feature of prose poetry is that it is written in paragraph form without line breaks. A benefit of this form is that it creates visually contained units for the content within, and this visual feature is further defined when the paragraphs are fully justified. According to Paul Hetherington and Cassandra Atherton, in their essay “Eyes inside words: Prose poetry, imagism, aesthetic empathy and autobiographical memory,” prose poetry’s “compressed paragraphs and (frequent) full justification . . . function differently to lineated poetry in the way they knit together, rather than separate, lines, words and images, allowing for a different reading experience than other forms of prose and poetry” (3). Through the use of compressed paragraphs and continual, “knit together,” lines and images, I wanted to create a block of prose poetry that generates the feeling of constant movement. Furthermore, I chose to A Series of Situations Bravo 4 employ the visual effect of the prose block to feature several scenes that were read in succession without break. This too is aided by the form of prose poetry. As Mary Oliver states, Prose poetry “seems more often than not to have at its center a situation rather than a narrative. Nothing much happens, that is, except this: through particularly fresh and intense writing, something happens to the reader—one’s felt response to the ‘situation’ of the prose poem grows fresh and intense also” (Oliver 86). This focus on situation rather than narrative felt appropriate for my project as it allowed me to contrast various scenes and actions which spur the reader into response. Poets such as Bernadette Mayer (The Desires of Mothers to Please Others in Letters), Lucie Brock-Broido (The Master Letters), and Bob Dylan (Tarantula) similarly use the visual effects of the prose block by using fully justified paragraphs and focus more on situations and scenes rather than a narrative. The visual formatting of the block creates for the reader an effect of continuality for the contained sentences. For instance, in The Desires of Mothers to Please Others in Letters, the majority of pieces are written in one continuous prose block. The following excerpt is from Mayer’s poem “The Well of Loneliness”: The lapis lazuli beads got unstrung and scattered all over the floor, we never see Tim anymore, it’s crazy to move and have to write so many more people, Marie’s little, there’s skywriting at sunset, Lewis is afraid she’ll catch him watching the broken t.v. like smoking cigarettes, it’s become the hottest night, a pink line. By the time we get old we may have lived everywhere though we’ve lived nowhere being unlike anyone. The novel is a rigid form, it’s not like life like they say it is and it makes money. . . . (62). By formatting her poem in this way, Mayer presses the reader to continue reading without pause or break, because of the visual containment of the block; and contained within that block are several situations and scenes that are experienced in quick succession. The compressed nature of A Series of Situations Bravo 5 the form allows Mayer to move from image to image in quick succession, creating a stream of consciousness effect. The entire poem from which this excerpted passage is taken is written in one prose block which spans five pages; and the effect of this is that the reader is pressed to read the entire poem, and all its situations without stop or rest. This use of prose poetry block differs from Lucie Brock-Broido’s use in The Master Letters. Unlike Mayer, Brock-Broido uses breaks between her prose blocks, and the effect of these breaks allows the reader space to separate and process the information of each block: At five they loose the coppery church bells on the parish here. Sky the color of a seam of swallows rushing on this old New World. Color of thrush, color of thrush. Then, there is quiet. Everyone is asleep, light metals, mender wandering. Needle, thread—were precious there. . . . (“Fair Copy from a Fair World” 35) Each block unit is designed to be read together, much like a paragraph in prose; however, using breaks allows Brock-Broido to emphasis situations and sentences by giving the reader breaks, as she does by placing a break after “there is quiet” in the above example. Bob Dylan, in his book Tarantula, similar to these two poets, also uses large prose blocks with occasional breaks; and often times he uses the break to switch poetic form. . . . life gets unbearable but the orator is not the reporter & hanging around at the press room & shelling out to the day crew & merchants of venice & why be bothered with other people’s set ups? it only leads to torture/ why it’s incredible! the world is mad with justice dear mayor wagner. has anybody A Series of Situations Bravo 6 ever told you, you look like james arness? i am writing to . . . (“Roping Off the Madman’s Corner” 28-29) Through the use of a break, Dylan creates a visual shift to denote a change from prose poetry to a second form, in this case epistolary. The effects these artists employ through the use of the prose poem is similar to the way that I use the prose poem. Similar to Mayer, I sought to use a single prose block to create a continuous, unbroken reading for the entire paragraph though I tried to keep my block short and direct to not overwhelm my reader, keeping the length to a half a page or less. However, in this half page of prose poetry I attempt, like Mayer, to create a quick, continual read throughout with little to no stops through several scenes in order to create a surreal feeling of unrelenting pace that is reminiscent of quotidian experience. In this way, I wanted the prose section to mirror life as a continual series of events are responded to instinctually. And similar to Dylan, I wanted to use a break to signify a change in form, switching from the form of prose poetry to the form of epistolary. Both of these aspects can be seen in an excerpt from my poem “Stuck in the Shadows of Past (Dead Sleep. Strange Bed)”: . . . “stop the presses, someone press pause, forget the future, i want to go back to what was, give me what will be again,” as he walks the graveyards regurgitating recollections and recounting rustic recitations—continually watching west for the sun to return in reverse . . . dpt atticus stands determined in his drive, ignores interference & abhors advice—as to his future he is fixed, monorailed forward (full and fast)—undeterred, uninterrupted, constant, “I will succeed or fail,” he boldly boasts, “but on my terms, in my time, a man apart from alteration.” A Series of Situations Bravo 7 to heavenly emilia & all her pseudo-religious tin whimen you fake-faced phony fuckers! can’t you leave us alone to mourn our loss in peace. . . . (“Stuck in the Shadows of Past (Dead Sleep. Strange Bed)”) The epistolary form most interested me because of two of its unique aspects: its one-way conversational conventions and its separation of time and space from author to recipient. Naturally, these two aspects are not mutually exclusive; letters by their nature are a means of conquering distance and division, to transcend space and time to converse with others. However, this space and time that epistolary attempts to transcend is nevertheless still present. As such, a person can express issues that they would otherwise not express in direct communication. As Erik Gray notes in “Indifference and Epistolarity in The Eve of St. Agnes,” “[a] letter is the refuge of the powerless, the means by which those who have no means of directly addressing someone who is at a remove (physical, social, or emotional) can nevertheless communicate” (Gray 130). Considering this aspect of epistolary, I sought to often have my characters express sentiments that would likely not be expressed in direct communication. For example, lashing out at sympathizers after a funeral: “do you not think i can see / that under your sanctimonious sentimentality / is your joy and relief that you’re not standing / in my place?” (“Stuck in the Shadows of Past (Dead Sleep. Strange Bed)”). Similarly, within a letter a person can avoid issues or simply allude to them before changing the subject altogether. As Gray states “A letter is understood to be a motley and extemporaneous assortment of observations; hence the topic may be changed in a moment without any lack of decorum” (Gray 131). As such, I again A Series of Situations Bravo 8 implemented this feature into my work: “how / do i know? i’d rather not say, but it involved / a phone book, a bottle of gin and several acts i care not / to remember, but i digress…” (“Delays & Departures (Climb Down from Your Treehouse)”). Another aspect of epistolary is that it creates a unique and intimate connection with the reader. In an epistle, there is created an I-You discourse in which “the I of the discourse has a partner, a specific You who stands in unique relation to the I,” (Lavers par. 18). This I-You discourse exists separate from the reader. As a result, the reader must then identify with either the correspondent or recipient of the epistle. This identification often happens subconsciously, however, regardless of whom the reader identifies with (correspondent or recipient), the reader forms a personal connection with that character as well as the poem. The three poets I mentioned in the prose poetry section (Mayer, Brock-Broido, and Dylan), also use epistolary poetry in some of their work. In addition to these three, Amy Newman, Jim Harrison, and Matthew Olzmann are also fantastic epistolary poets that I have come to know. All of poets employ many of the conventions of epistolary, such as the separation of time and space, evasive tone, quick subject changes, and an I-You discourse. This last aspect of epistolary, the I-You discourse, is one that I want to focus on because it allows an intimate discourse between the recipient and the epistolarian that is experienced by the reader. For instance in Olzmann poem “Fourteen Letters to a 52-Hertz Whale,” he writes “I’m sure it’s unbearable out there, swimming through eternity, calling out and calling out and calling out and calling out and never getting a reply, never hearing a kind word in response. / / Wherever you are, I hope you’re being careful” (41). Despite the separation of space and species, the epistolary form, through the I-You discourse, allows for an intimate connection to which the reader is privy. In an interview about Constellation Route, Olzmann speaks of this discourse when he A Series of Situations Bravo 9 states that letters have “a type of one-way communication involved. A writer on one side, a reader on the other. And as writers, we have to be aware of that presence on the other side of this correspondence” (Olzmann, Literary North). Similarly, Harrison in poem “30” from Letters To Yesenin writes “Any common soul knew you had consented to death, the only possible blasphemy. I write to you like some half-witted, less courageous brother, unwilling to tease those ghosts you slept with faithfully until they cast you out” (63). Like Olzmann, Harrison is able to create an intimate connection with Yesenin through the I-You discourse convention of the letter. This intimate connection works well to convey emotional relationships such as friendship, love, animosity, rivalry, and so on. These intimate connections and emotional relationships are what I strove to portray in the epistolary of my work. For instance, in the epistle from “The Calling (Words at the Door)” I write “i suppose / i should congratulate your effort, / but still i miss your company. hope your / red shoes bring you round soon, ‘til then / i’ll keep tending to the shovel” through this epistle, and particularly this end, I wanted to convey the concern and love, as well as a degree of strain, that karen has for her brother. Another point of consideration I had for my epistles was recipients and epistolarians, as well as salutations and valedictions, for the letters themselves. Poets such as Newman in her collection Dear Editor, Brock-Broido in The Master Letters, and Harrison in Letters to Yesenin consistently have singular writers and singular recipients throughout. For instance, Newman uses the same salutation, beginning each poem “Dear Editor:” and closes each poem with the same valediction “Sincerely, / Amy Newman.” Whereas poets such as Mayer (The Desire of Mothers) and Olzmann (Constellation Route) largely address their letters to a variety of recipients, but still from singular epistolarians. A Series of Situations Bravo 10 Dylan in Tarantula, however, features many epistolarians and recipients. Although he often foregoes salutations, informing the reader to whom the letter is addressed, he consistently uses authorial valedictions. In this way, his epistles feature valedictions such as “your friend, / homer the slut” (14) or “sincerely yours, / Froggy” (84). In regards to my own project, I opted to consistently use both salutations and valedictions throughout my work. The particular reason is due to the various characters that are featured in my work. My work is a collection of characters and without clear salutations and valedictions the context of the letters would be lost. The concept of combining the forms of prose poetry and epistolary was first introduced to me through Dylan’s collection Tarantula. Through my experience with this book, I saw that the quick paced, situation based structure of prose poetry juxtaposed well with the more intimate and conversational structure of epistolary poetry. Through this combination of forms, I wanted to both generate and balance that juxtaposition. As such, I attempted to contrast the fast-paced, third person, descriptive prose block with a slower-paced, first person, intimate and emotional letter. However, I still wanted there to be balance and connection between the forms; so, I tried to keep each section to half a page each, so that the reader experienced the forms in relative balance. I also attempted to keep the prose and epistle centered on the same theme; in this way, I intended to give the reader complementary perspectives through contrasting styles on any given poem. My intention for this collection is to focus on various people and viewpoints rather than a singular narrator. In this way, these poems are a type of persona poetry. For this reason, I wanted to focus more on the construction and actions of characters. Kim Addonizio, a 2000 National Book Award finalist, states in the article “Characters in Poetry” that elements of character in poetry depend on “description, action, words—these are all ways in which we come to know A Series of Situations Bravo 11 people. . . . how they look and the way they present themselves to the world. We know them by what they do and by what they say” (qtd. in Day 20-21). Two poets who notably use characters in their work are James Tate and Bob Dylan. For example, Tate in his poem, “Overheard on the Driving Range,” writes “And he was a wonderful kisser. One night at a party he asked me what was the most times I had ever been kissed. I told him the Father of French Surgery had once kissed me two hundred and seventy-six times in an evening, and Old Anthony, after asking my approval, proceeded to kiss me two hundred and seventy-five times, stopping, he said so as not to be disrespectful. . . .” (Tate 12) The way that Tate uses characters in this excerpt is fantastic. First off, the names he uses, “Father of French Surgery” and “Old Anthony,” give the reader an immediate description of the characters. As does these character’s actions, for instance the quantity and manner of kissing. The dialogue, too, is interesting; the passage itself is written in dialogue, and thus the manner of the dialogue gives the reader insight into the speaker. In addition to that there is indirect dialogue from Old Anthony who stopped “he said so as not to be disrespectful.” Similarly, Dylan in his poem “A Punch of Pacifist” features a fantastic array of characters: . . . —anyway Brown Dan—he comes snooping for the strangers with his flunky known simply as Little Stick, who carries a burnt hat pin & two pieces of kotex in case of emergency . . . they meet up with the crew at a clearing resembling a fisherman’s dwarf . . . Jim Ghandi, the welder, is overlooking from his window—& yells something like “aw reet ye sons a vermits—draw ye now or shut ye mouths frever” (85) A Series of Situations Bravo 12 Like Tate, Dylan uses names as a means of adding description to a character as well as profession. Similarly, Dylan uses the character’s actions and dialogue to set up situations and scenes. Much like these poets, I sought to employ these three concepts of character in my poetry. For this reason I often gave my characters descriptive names such as “hampered heidi,” “heavenly emilia,” and “silent k;” their very names immediately describe an aspect of their character. Similarly, their actions, the second element of character, are as vividly descriptive. For example, hampered heidi is “walking waiting for validation & verification” (“Take This Cup Away from Me (Backyard Horticulture Blues)”), heavenly emilia “hurries off to protest the construction of a mosque” (“Call It a Crisis (Keep Your Crooked Nails)”), and silent k “simply exists (unspoken, unnoticed, unknown)” (“Dress Rehearsal Dirge (Stripped Solid)”). Likewise, their words and conversations complete their characterization: hampered heidi says “‘all i know is strange shoes i’ve stepped too far in, can’t tells ya which are mine no more,’” heavenly emilia say “‘my faith is just fine for it suits to back up my views,’” and silent k does not speak. Another feature I focused on in my creative work is the sound and language. Among that focus on sound is the repeated use of alliteration within the work. This focus on sound through alliteration is similar to Olzmann in his poem “Letter to a Man Drowning in a Folktale:” “The lines of demarcation between decent / and deranged are distinct. / Like these forms on my desk about organ donation: / the how, where, when, and why” (53). Like Olzmann, I attempted to use the repeated use alliteration to generate an appealing sound, “lipsick soft she wearies to explain her reasons for staying steadfast solitary, says she is solo sufficient, a lauded loner” (“Lonesome is a Long Place (A Piece of Timber’s Weight)”). The use of alliteration in poetry is not necessarily unique, for instance “A singe of salt-hay shrouds the orchard-skin” (Brock-Broido A Series of Situations Bravo 13 73) or “my dreams of dust that will settle in the serge and fur of myself / in reality unsaintly in the shape of the sun Dionysian debris” (Stanford 310). However, often times the use of alliteration in these mentioned works is limited and minor, whereas within my work it exists more prevalently. Although, alliteration occurs throughout the work, it exists most extensively in the prose section. The purpose of this is to convey, without explicitly stating it, a consistent voice or narrator throughout. Within my creative work, I sought to create a quick, continual read throughout with little to no stops, particularly in the prose block, in order to create a surreal feeling of constant movement, similar to Frank Stanford’s The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You. Within the work, Stanford achieves this constant movement by eliminating punctuation throughout the piece: how many times like cries committed in Holiday Inns have I heard that phrase the so-called good old boys that come in the middle of the night with blood on their hands the fraternities burning up churches at ten p.m. I said look here but before I could do anything the girl with black hair and the fat boy who talked through his nose like his daddy both were stepping off back to back against one another and the fathers were counting (Stanford 117) However, the lack of punctuation is not without drawback as it can make the text fairly difficult to read. Conversely, the same effect of movement is generated in works such as Tarantula and The Master Letters by their specific use of punctuation through their uses of commas and dashes: “Let us say, for instance, there are but six thing left to feel in the world, six things left to put your mouth on: Bliss & Loss—for two, Trembling & Compulsion—four, Desire & Disease—you A Series of Situations Bravo 14 see?” (Brock-Broido 6) or “picture of dirt farmer—long johns—coonskin cap—strangling himself on his shoe—his wife, tripping over the skulls—her hair in rats—their kid is wearing a scorpion—the scorpion wears glasses—the kid, he’s drinking gin” (Dylan 75). Similar to these two poets, I attempted to achieve this continual movement by punctuating each piece with liberal uses of commas, parentheses, dashes, and ellipses, and largely avoiding periods throughout the prose section. In this way, I worked to punctuate so as to keep the movement moving: “ships of sand pass windows flash frosted by acidic rains—he wanders about the trainyard, car to car, recounting his lurid lores, lost in their lure—a flood of chestnut hair, a blaze of diamond teeth, and always stolen the steel of eyes of jade,” (“Delays & Departures (Climb Down from Your Treehouse)”). Through these conventions, I wanted to reinforce the nature of movement that often comes from the structure of prose poetry. Through this collection of works, I hope to create poems that readers can relate and respond to. It is my intent that as my audience reads these works that feature characters and scenes, they will situate themselves within the work; either by relating to these characters or reviling them. For this reason, I attempted to create within each poem contrasting views and situations, as well as an external, observational perspective (prose poetry section) and an internal, intimate perspective (epistolary section). In this way, I hope that the social, cultural, and religious issues and people I present in my work, through satire and sincerity, will echo and influence, and sometimes even challenge, those same issues and ethics in my reader’s daily life. Works Cited Brock-Broido, Lucie. The Master Letters. Knopf. 1995. Cardell, Kylie and Jane Haggis, “Contemporary Perspectives on Epistolarity,” Life Writing, vol. 8, 2011, pp. 130-131. Day, Kay. Characters in Poetry. Writer (Kalmbach Publishing Co.), vol. 117, no. 6, Jun. 2004, pp. 20-21. Dylan, Bob. Tarantula. Scribner. 1966. Gray, Erik. “Indifference and Epistolarity in The Eve of St. Agnes” Romanticism, 1999, vol. 5, no. 2, 1999, pp. 127-131. Harrison, Jim. The Essential Poems, edited by Joseph Bednarik. Copper Canyon Press. 2019 Hetherington, Paul and Cassandra Atherton. “Eyes inside words: Prose poetry, imagism, aesthetic empathy and autobiographical memory.” TEXT, vol. 21, no. 46, 2017, pp. 1-20. Lavers, Jordan. "The Epistolarity of a Social Network: Simulating a Romantic Network Community in Letters by Karoline von Günderrode." Nineteenth-Century Literature Criticism, edited by Lawrence J. Trudeau, vol. 338, 2017. Mayer, Bernadette. The Desire of Mothers to Please Others in Letters. SplitLevel Texts & Nightboat Books. 2017. Newman, Amy. Dear Editor. Persea Books. 2011 Oliver, Mary. A Poetry Handbook. Harcourt Brace & Company. 1994. Olzmann, Matthew. Constellation Route. Alice James Books. 2022. ---. “Interview: Matthew Olzmann.” Literary North, 28 Feb. 2022, https://literarynorth.org/blog/2022/2/28/interview-matthew-olzmann Stanford, Frank. The Battlefield Where The Moon Says I Love You. Lost Roads. 2000. Tate, James. Memoir of the Hawk. Ecco. 2002. The Man in Red Shoes Quincy Bravo Quincy Bravo The Man in Red Shoes 1 Dress Rehearsal Dirge (Stripped Solid) karen the undertaker in her swole-stained boots crawls out heavy from her self-dug grave too proud to be laid low by the half thought bullshit benjamin the dictator-elect calls refreshing honesty, she says “what happened to truth, black/white, right/wrong, before every voice had a cable news channel to back opinion as fact” . . . the halls and streets grow thick with faceless forms swimming blind and breathing shallow, all move to and fro but always on the go, only silent k remains still— simply exists (unspoken, unnoticed, unknown), he sees, he knows, and he screams silent, tongue torn, twisted, unable to tell— gone are the days of his struggle for fallow flora, queen of the rain and wind, so many seeds unsown, now are the days of void, the poet lain dead, the gutter prophet left to rot, not even the cops dare touch his immaculate decay . . . only k & karen dare to bury him in the grave that she once laid—forced, forgotten, faithful to the helium ethos. to dupree the wantaway hobo what happened to you? the golden boy with the famous golden touch? gone are the days of potential and promise now you must wallow in the ruins of waste and mediocrity. the great nonconformist conforming to the gutter steps, rebelling in your solitude. but if nothing else you got endurance, to sit there everyday smiling as others move on, move past, leave behind what you refuse to. now you continue on with friends turned strangers and strangers turned enemies. how sad you must be to pine away as an island. enjoy your rocky life as a pair of 1, miss irish maggie mae Quincy Bravo Thesis Project 2 Call It a Crisis (Keep Your Crooked Nails) old man peter, the petrified penitent, spends his evenings dressing up like the lone ranger & writing his manufactured manifesto he calls paradise lost in space: the cries & thralls of the fiberglass age—he lives with his faith tight shut behind closed-locked doors always ever so careful to “goddamn” as much as he can when he’s in public and crosses himself every time he passes a bank . . . his prissed daughter of the 12th night spends her days muddled in musings, she says her first blunder was her dress was too tight, her latest one is that she keeps confusing the words ethics & ethnics, the problem is simply that she hasn’t seen enough of either to be able to keep them straight . . . prometius unwound comes screamin’ in laughing, lolling, lingering to tell all there, here, and neverwhere how false fooled they are with their antiquated arks and dated dogmas & heavenly emilia ho-hoffs & scoffs off his crucifiying claims saying, “my faith is just fine for it suits to back up my views, it’s the crazy creeds of the other churches that have ruined religion’s reputation” then she hurries off to protest the construction of a mosque in her neighborhood. hey steel guitar louie, longtime no speak, i ain’t avoiding yur call, i’m sure, anymore than you avoid mine, i just got so goddamn sick of yur “i don’t knows” and “i don’t cares.” anymore, it seems the only faith yah find is in these women you pedestal into idolation. i saw yur latest angel, ms peep, show her real colors down in gunderson’s alley just last week. she was swapping kisses for quarters with the neighbor boys and she sure weren’t short of customers. don’t yah get sick of this; sicka havin’ your heart struck with a ten ton metric hammer. course, s’pose when heartbreak’s the closest thing you’ve felt to love, yah take as much of it as you can. hope your next lover pans out, keller the roosterman Quincy Bravo Thesis Project 3 Conserve Your Passion for the Stage (Crux Fixation) charlotte in scarlet with her heart scorch burned in her death fury fails to see what is just beyond reach, she lingers and lives with her shame unseen, cursing her curing and her one time savior dressed in white; she cries to artemis and the moon above about the lies he fed her, saying “thief! robber! he has stolen the diamonds from my mine, and squashed the grapes on my vine” and the man in white runs a latex glove through his quaffed hair, double tabs his framed papers, and cocoons himself in his laurels, philosophizing “a bit of dough is not a loaf of bread” as he tosses off the crumbs of his work with the rest of the rubbish . . . dupree the hungry hobo is fasting slowly, squirming for an answer to his quandaries, he‘s camped himself outside the doors of city parliament, he speaks out whether someone is there or not, saying “forget your forgotten frivolous fisher king, some wounds can’t be healed; how many crusades will it take to learn that blood and bone are being shed for pantomime positions” then he owls on, “who? who by fire and flame? who? who by water and rain? who? who by his name and reign? who, who—” but before the derelict drifter can continue, 7-finger mike bruises his ribs and bloodies his tongue ‘til his “whos” turn to gurgles, then hauls him off to county lockup. to lonesome laura i am writing to you out of a growing concern for your well-being. i think that your fixation on fictitious events is affecting your daily life. your new fascination with the crucifixion is becoming quite disturbing. it’s like you have some morose obsession with pain and death. and now i find that you are reliving the manner of the myth in 14 parts. it is embarrassing. but did you ever stop to wonder what a bargain it was that thirty pieces of silver bought the man’s death? seriously, is that all your god is worth? it’s time you grow up from these peter pan fantasies and join the 21st century where god didn’t die; he never existed. your concerned friend, prometheus unwound Quincy Bravo Thesis Project 4 Delays & Departures (Climb Down from Your Treehouse) sampson the switchhanded brakeman rides the railcars night-day away from the ghost of his cold countess of court, ships of sand pass windows flash frosted by acidic rains—he wanders about the trainyard, car to car, recounting his lurid lores, lost in their lure—a flood of chestnut hair, a blaze of diamond teeth, and always stolen the steel of eyes of jade, “gone, gone” he wind wails, “my love is gone, beyond above, she was taken—surely no being high or here would derive such a deprivation as this” . . . the languid lovers, ramón and julia, lie lustfuly indifferent to their insulated isolation, for the other alone does each live—they spend their days ruminating and romanticizing their palpable pacts to prove their ardent admiration, confessing constantly, “never before & never again does a love like ours burn bright, we can’t even go outside without looks of injurious envy, no one else understands, no one else matters, just us”—forgotten friends and finite family are forced from the forefront as they exist involved and dissolved in we-centric wallpaper wisdom. dear little miss prim & proper, i saw you on the street last week; you weren’t at your grandma’s funeral like you said. how do i know? i’d rather not say, but it involved a phone book, a bottle of gin and several acts i care not to remember, but i digress…are you really so desperate to shrug me off? you don’t like me, i get it, but damn, have some dignity and decorum; we still have to work together. goddamn, your ego must be huge to act the way you do, to sit with a smile on your face and exclaim that at last you know what marilyn monroe must have felt like. don’t get me wrong, you’re beautiful, hell, you’re gorgeous, but that doesn’t give you a free pass to act like a bitch, although, it may get you free drinks. all your fake laughing and giggling that you think attracts men, well, i never could stand, but for a while, i thought there was something more behind your fifty dollar mascara and two-hundred dollar boots, but i’ve been wrong before. hmmm…somewhere in this letter i lost my point, but in short: i’ve quit my job and joined the army. figure, i can’t experience worse than i already have. sincerely, not the prince, but the pauper Quincy Bravo Thesis Project 5 Stuck in the Shadows of Past (Dead Sleep. Strange Bed) hyperbolic harrold, contained in complacence, can’t catch the ticks that slip quick from his clock— drip, drip, drop, they flick away like rainwashed chalk, “what happened ta yesterday,” he becries behind, “stop the presses, someone press pause, forget the future, i want to go back to what was, give me what will be again,” as he walks the graveyards regurgitating recollections and recounting rustic recitations—continually watching west for the sun to return in reverse . . . dpt atticus stands determined in his drive, ignores interference & abhors advice—as to his future he is fixed, monorailed forward (full and fast)—undeterred, uninterrupted, constant, “I will succeed or fail,” he boldly boasts, “but on my terms, in my time, a man apart from alteration.” to heavenly emilia & all her pseudo-religious tin whimen you fake-faced phony fuckers! can’t you leave us alone to mourn our loss in peace. enough! no more. refrain from your breezy bereavements & half-hearted condolences. you harlequin sympathizers & 2-bit hypocrites. keep your unsolicited, asinine aphorisms to yourselves. leave your meals on your stoves & your flowers in the ground. don’t you know that comfort is impossible & your pity is insufferable. do you not think i can see that under your sanctimonious sentimentality is your joy and relief that you’re not standing in my place? better that you stay at home & relish your own happiness in silence & leave us to our grief. i promise you, we’ll do better without you & your hallmark sympathy cards. sorrowfully yours, come-again kathy Quincy Bravo Thesis Project 6 The Calling (Words at the Door) old man peter praises his permanent position of part-time parishioner, long has he shut sleeping ears to hear his cosmic calling constant in his conscience, viciously he revolts & reviles the validity of vocation, says “there’s no profit in priesthood, no money in martyrdom, no point being steadfast in faith if it won’t further fund my fortune”. . . cable kennedy, pressed & plugged, fights frantic fears he’s gone bad news bust, he stands around the college bent & burdened by indecision, sloughing sighs he cries “don’t know what i want to be, got no passion or purpose—how’m i supposed to live with meaning when the means seem monotonous bullshit, pointless & petty?” he spends his weeknights stilled in stupor considering those called & compelled to greatness, questioning the condition of being called to nothing. dear brother in red shoes haven’t the treads of your tired shoes worn through yet? i know you call your pursuit your purpose but even vocations have their limits. years have grown lost & i miss the days we spent puzzling pieces in simple silence. how can you persist to continue when the demons of doubt stand poised at every street corner? constancy was never your virtue, so why do you continue your call to the point of vice? i suppose i should congratulate your effort, but still i miss your company. hope your red shoes bring you round soon, ‘til then i’ll keep tending to the shovel. yours faithfully frank, karen the undertaker Quincy Bravo Thesis Project 7 Ever the Optimist (Don’t Forget to Visit) in a clud of country, cowboy jim claims his stake, twisting & turning, he climbs crossed from the biweekly farmers market dressed in black with a toothpick lodged between his tongue & cheek, he scorns & scoffs with wife in tow, touting “god, the world’s gone worse,” his hat in hand, he spits to the east & digs his heels in the dirt, crying “ain’t like it used to be—we all done growed too soft—tell ya, john wayne wouldn’t stand for this shit!” by twilight he walks the hardware store looking for right-minded thinkers, wants to start a rally campaign to reboot rawhide back into primetime programing, remind people how the west was won & who won it . . . come-again kathy can’t cast off the permapresent joy prized inside her head though her face stays fixed in frown, 4 & twenty hours she seems to sing celebration—her eyes turn high from the lowest blow & tears come only in laughter, when asked why, she simple states “the kind eye sees clearest & beholds in all no one but one” disconcerted by her gaze, the office debutants detest her determined disposition & curve around her cubicle, desperate to avoid all interaction, annoyed by her arrogance, wary of her wonder. to prometheus unwound you could bitch about anything, couldn’t you? like just last week i heard you lost your shit again, something about a twinkle clown dressed in a coonskin cap & playing with finger puppets…goddamn man, sometimes you just gotta let shit go. i mean, seriously, all these disconcerted blues have been bumming me out & i gotta take some space. i’m so sick of you saying “this job sucks, this music sucks, this show sucks, this car sucks, the government sucks.” fuck! if you’re so dissatisfied with the world around you, why are you still hanging about it? do something or change your disposition, cause i ain’t having it no more. me, i’m off to live on the bright side, might be blinded sometimes, but it’s better than slinking around in the shade. see ya on the street (& don’t you act surprised), dpt atticus estranged Quincy Bravo Thesis Project 8 Advent Inc. (Warm Winter Solstice) it’s a bank brawl blackened friday as the christmas season kicks off opening day, consumers hot to hunt, their shotgun fingers poised on mousey trigger, scope fixed on 10-point prices while caustic crowds clamor & crawl, bribe & bloody, eager to grasp gadgets & games to gift with ungrateful gratitude & fairseen samuel, the secular scholar, cajoled by cultural customs conforms to the capital chaos as he mutely mumbles “god, how’d it come to this? we’re far from the first celebration, forgotten are the frankincense & myrrh, all we recall is the gift of gold”—while overheard overhead warehouse wally’s discount store pulses the heltering hum of 102.1 (home of the holiday hits) where dj danue is dealing with the thanksgivingless task of removing all religious regulars & replacing them with safer songs about santa & sleighbells, says he can’t let his radio rating fall after he received so many complaints from listeners last year, says when it comes to christmas the public want all the pomp but not the person. dear irish maggie mae merry christmas, sis, or rather happy holidays, (almost forgot glad tidings threaten religious freedom) got to be generic in person & abroad these days. i was sad to hear that you won’t be here to for the family festivities this year, but at least you’ve got your hallmark channel christmas countdown to keep you company. i guess i get your fascination with the films, all the hype of the holidays without the rigors of religion, you know, goodness without an emphasis on god. anyway, thank you for your gift, yours should arrive the same time as this letter. spoiler— it’s a rendition of aseop’s fables as told by an orphan flamingo, hope to hear from you before groundhog’s day, absolutely alice Quincy Bravo Thesis Project 9 Private Designs for Public Living (4-Card PowerPoint) heavenly emilia wears her high-handed holiness like a cloak of clovers to cover the cracks of her caverns, content in her covetous castigation, she clings to the name christ, with white-gloved hand held skyward she is quick to quote scripture, curtailed to convenience, in curt tones as she cries, “don’t be fooled by false prophets, those demons & deceivers, i know the right, i hold the knowledge of the way to truth & light—let me teach you all the proper prayers, everything else is unbecoming savagery” . . . lonesome laura lingers onward lost but listening, says she really doesn’t know what to say cause she really doesn’t know where to go—she keeps her tongue tight shut & serves to speak with her hands, worship in her work, & prayer through her practice—silently she swallows the aspersions she hears about the ascended til they are pointedly pressed to pierce her heart & rent her head before her—each pertly presented pleasantly, passion in her pain. dear sister mary constance i’m concerned about your latest batch of catechumens, i think your curriculum’s all wrong, your heads too stuck in the past. too readily, you profane that all has been revealed, finished done, as if christ spoke only in the past. i tell you he speaks just as surely today. why do you insist to instruct with head turned hard behind your shoulder, the majesty of martyrs & sovereignty of saints is well established, is their path the only pious road to trek? why do you speak only in their voice, with their words; have you nothing new to add? all creeds lie comatose as corpses without context & commitment. your hollow clinging to lived lives compels nothing, attentive action is required for fruitful faith. hope you find your pulse soon, your self-taught pupil, unseen una Quincy Bravo Thesis Project 10 Gone with the Children (Lost & Found) left of the longway straightaway lie the lost girls stained with soot watching for wayward weather—trapped by the clap of lightning’s thunder their terrored eyes search the skies in wonder as the woods around them turn to fire—and it burns & burns & burns—while their plastic crowns & crimson capes are pried from plaits in pangs of panic—to burn & burn & burn—feet frozen fast, nowhere to run, they cast themselves calm, content to the fire’s faint & fevered flicker convinced it’s the starless night’s only light . . . benjamin the dictator clicks his tongue in ticks and fits, convinced he’s lost his son, cries “can’t see where he went, just one day up and dead disappear” but his son sits round him bound and down dreaming of dancing ducks in delicate waltzes, he says “i ain’t lost pa, you just haven’t found me yet—you keep looking in the wrong places, i ain’t in the fairy tale storyboard you wrote me when i was 10, didn’t you know my hand would grow eager to write upon my own page?” to ms. thin tin lizzy got yur letter late last nite—fuck! we can’t keep doin’ this. howmany times yah gonna tell me “it’ll be different this time?” you keep tellin’ me this time that yah’ll win, but we both know you’ll give way to yur demons & the dice once again. goddamm! yah know yah used seven of the same lines as when yah crawled home crippled from that bastard broker’s 2am card game. i think it’s ‘bout time we both learned what a losing hand looks like. anywhos, as yah asked, i’ll include yur weekly stipend from my last paycheck. tell yur loanshark i said hi, your rufflefeathered son, keller the roosterman Quincy Bravo Thesis Project 11 Take This Cup Away from Me (Backyard Horticulture Blues) apple tatum, the green thumb king of the northside community garden, has taken to meditating in the off to mediate his agony that’s bottlelocked within—says “i feel like captain keg, all pinned down & primed up ready to blow”—he continually kicks out & curses his cabbages spoiled in soil, distressed depressed aggressed by their death, he drinks his despair into resentment ‘til he’s crippled with castigation—raging relentlessly, putting all the garden on their guard . . . hampered heidi, hands in hair, is two-foot-twisted, arrested with anxiety, apprehensive to the last to make a dictum or decision—says she sees too much she can’t keep straight, cries up “all i know is strange shoes i’ve stepped too far in, can’t tells ya which are mine no more,” panic parasites her mind when options open before below her til she turns invalid—walking waiting for validation & verification to be bestowed upon her caution. to neoprene ilene, gotta be straight with you, your recent aversion to suffering is rather disconcerting. why do you run from what must be met? know you nothing of conservation & comparison? not every apple is sweet, not every leaf green, & you can only be as high as you have fallen. pain & joy are just contrasting colors in the kaleidoscope. don’t be fooled by the haphazard proclamations of positivity by the plastic people who run from tragedy & skirt away from sorrow; they know only half-lives of hollow happiness & tv sitcoms. hope you learn to love brambles as well as the begonias soon, colorfully yours, lonesome laura Quincy Bravo Thesis Project 12 Nothing More than the Glass Reflects (The Whiplashing) wont-eyed willie, the etcetera etcetera, exists hidden in plain sight, safe behind his 15 step camouflage plan—“be grey drop plain is the path best trod” he whispers to wax figure companions, he’s long since happy learned to hide his hand & curb his charisma, “can’t be too careful with crowds, they stand poised to pierce & burn, break & bury, muddy up any they see as above or below”—he secondthought speaks & walks with waited gait, ready to stop turn run whichway the west wind wills, seeking survival in sycophantic simulation. . . .with baited breath & backward lungs, little boy brown slinks quiet through halls of thorns pulled slick tight in twisted out—8 hours he sits numb dazed, mute still in institutional isolation, rebuffed, rejected as renegade—says he can’t help it, can’t fit to be what he’s not—dressed in red zipoff pants, he tapes his mouth shut to stifle his scoffs—exiled to obscurity, threaded in taunts he tallies his exodus of pinkened pep rallies put on to parade a plastic spirit of teen fancy pervading & perverting perspectives of perfection & promises of potential—alien alone with half-hurt hunger burning for the sugar stalk serenade played to drown the dirge that wails within the windowless walls. to silent k, how dare you be yourself so recklessly? don’t you know there are protocols in place to prevent such brazen attitudes? i don’t care what you believe about truth & dignity— it’s just not done. society’s built on standards & traditions—who the hell do you think you are to shirk such obligations when everyone else consents to comply? as if you exist in a solitude of one. concessions are compulsory in common company—surely you can’t be unabridged all the time & what’s with this “i don’t care” attitude? didn’t you know the fashion now is passion to please? if you don’t shape up soon someone is liable to take offence. my advice, grow up, pit your pride, & pretend like the rest of us. your five & fifty faced friend, fallen molly Quincy Bravo Thesis Project 13 Self-Titled, Approximately (Traitor to the Crown) ape-faced casey, king of clowns, in a midblue suit & paper crown trips & trolls the concrete trails dragging ragged baggage taped up new & locked up lid tight—when asudden abrupt 7-fingered mike stops him still to query the contents of his burden, & clown king casey tells him it’s where he carries the castiron keepsakes wasted in years of golden ghosts & broken bridges “nothing so malicious as memory” he giggle cries, “when hunger turns to humiliation & shame sets in” to which 7-finger mike laughs “never knew clowns spoke so stoically severe,” & casey curls a smile to say “just so, a forever fool finds forget in foreign fancies—paint your face any color but blue & mold your mask into the jolly jokerman & if you have to cry, hide your tears in laughter”. . . . one-way katie long lost in lakelands dreams her days in movie scenes—self solo she exist a shinning star, a quicksilver queen of stage & screen—every fling rings clean a rom-com rendezvous, every disappointment a drama—says she acts her day away in scripted speech with a face fit for film— as she singles songs as soundtrack samples sung as background to her foreground life—desperate for dialogue she keeps her cast close at hand unsure who to cut, careful to indulge in intermissions, fearing the fade to black when the final credits roll. to my little siren, a fish tail wasn’t the only thing you were hiding. suppose open air’s been known to corrode what salt water has done so well to preserve. did you take me for an easy mark? a rube prime for the bait & switch. i thought you to be an angel fish til your poisonous barbs showed me what a puffer you really are. does having gills & lungs make it twice as easy to bitch & moan? guess our split didn’t come a moment too soon. still, wish you all the luck, as for me, i’m gonna look for a quieter fish in the sea. your once upon a time love, the mariner prince Quincy Bravo Thesis Project 14 Lonesome is a Long Place (A Piece of Timber’s Weight) karen the undertaker fit to be prime carries herself crosstown, single seated, covered in crochet clovers—lipsick soft she wearies to explain her reasons for staying steadfast solitary, says she is solo sufficient, a lauded loner, but positively alice pert to pry corners her keen to question, crying “what’s the deal, can’t you land a man? guys & girls alike are loathed to be alone—unless your heart holds heat for a fire already burned out” & karen cackles back “i ain’t the sort, it’s just that solitude suits me simple plain,” but alice devout to doubles deepens her inquest “gals aren’t made to stay isolate—even old maids can’t play their cards without company—bind yourself to a partner & learn to take your part in a pair,” but karen shrugs to say “coupling is for cowards, it takes courage to go it alone—i am content to carry on unhitched & call no man master or muse”. . . drunk, sunk, & liquor soaked, steel guitar louie distils his ill-fitted situation drawn down by the dying day—bottle drained he hears in fear the bedroom walls speak in sputtered slights as they say “alone, alone, always alone, both apart & in a crowd—always around, surrounded by lovely strangers all so estranged to you” & steel guitar louie cries back “love is not always a splendid thing, but i’ll hold fast my faith in tomorrow, just as much as i did for today,” but all the night the wicked walls nag & whisper back “that seems stale consolation as you spend your nights alone. for the hapless sailor, i should have let you drown. probably would have been easier that way. but, despite your claim, i never pretended to be someone i’m not; there’s just so long a person can hold their tongue. i left everything to be with you, family & friends, home & element, & the minute i find my voice, you decide to fish in other waters. i refuse to stay silent, be a pretty little fish you tout in a tank. if you want someone demure, stick to your own species, god knows i will. hope you learn to swim soon, but if not stay out of the water. sincerely the same, the mermaid ps i’m dropping the “little” from my name; i refused to be diminished. Quincy Bravo Thesis Project 15 The Artist & Her Pen (Repeated Regicide) prometheus unwound tipturned to shuffle down highways & harbors rallies to keep court with mean manufacturers of furniture fictions & painted verse—biweekly boasting his hexagram hymnals of washed wit & wisdom, wry trail treads tabled with twotone talk, self-sucking shared time in his pricked yearing to brick up his buckle badges & irish maggie mae simmer steams green to hear his glutton grandstand fishing til scant clear of plastered ears she screams “what about me & mine? he’s not the only protagonist trying to peddle prose” then off she kicks clean ringed walking, swearing she’ll find finer feedback milking the mirror for notes on her novel. . . fallow flora anchored to echoes fiens to forget wasted years of lostlorn longing she frost-fickle met, qualmed to quit she’s quick to equip cutting quips & liquid lies slick-crafted fit to split—ever the artist of escape armed with an inkpen tongue—double-lived she tallies the times she coyed around silent k, carefully kept, she keels the split-clipped relic ruminations, fro & frought she preenly pricks the past for unsolicited cinnamon latte surprises—peaked to pause the forward feel of fawned flattery printed back. to reverend dagwood, forgive me father, but i felt i had to write you after catching your sunday sermon. i confess i was impressed by your fire & commitment, pounding your pulpit to engage your congregation ready to dripdrink your gospel word, but the way you insist that persistent prayer attains personal profit struck me odd, as if god where a genie fit to grant wishes. how can you preach that god gives benefits & bestows favors only to those who live & give holy upright? surely, you can’t be serious? god is not a karmic merchant eager to pay for righteousness & fine for sin. though strange how you gave this homely just prior to taking tithes. sorry to say i failed to contribute to your collection, but you’ll be pleased to know you procured my prayers; so, tell me reverend— which would you have preferred? your fellow derelict, dupree the heretical hobo